Refrain
by Exley-61
Summary: In one instant, everything changes for Mulder. With one look, he is prompted to search for a different truth A truth as seemingly elusive and as obscure as any X- File...


TITLE: Refrain  
AUTHOR: Exley_61 (exley61@yahoo.com)  
RATING: PG-13  
SPOILERS: None  
DISTRIBUTION: I'll do Emphemeral, otherwise practically anywhere,   
just let me know.  
  
CATEGORY: BIG UST, MSR Scully Angst and Mulder Angst  
DISCLAIMER: prop. of CC productions & Fox   
  
SUMMARY: In one instant, everything changes for Mulder. With   
one look, he is prompted to search for a different truth.  
A truth as seemingly elusive and as obscure as any   
X-file......  
  
QUICK NOTE: I wanted to thank everyone who emailed me and embraced  
me into the Xfic world. It has been incredible. This is my second  
story and I hope you enjoy. Special thanks to my betas.  
FEEDBACK: Yes, please do. It's my second shot out of the   
gates and I would like to know your thoughts   
on it.  
  
  
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
REFRAIN  
by  
Exley_61   
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
  
  
  
I wonder if he heard the throbbing, the ache beneath the thin   
plaster of my skin. I can't conceal it any longer. Time   
strokes, provokes, and titillates, dilating my eyes as I have   
watched him, examined him in tinted shades of demand.  
  
It frightens me. He frightens me. I am the master carpenter of  
the ultimate lie, sealing the door against temptation, against   
him. I build an impenetrable facade in which I take refuge,   
adhering to the call of reason, but reason does not hold against   
him. He demolishes it, over and over, splintering my resolve   
into shards.  
  
Mulder.  
  
He steals me from myself -- a master strategist. In a campaign   
of a slow, minute collection of advances, he tricks me into   
a smile, a laugh, a touch that absorbs through my blood and   
streamlines into my heart.  
  
There are no plans of defense to combat against this  
siege, no method or desire to persuade him to release me.  
  
I am captured, catapulted into a canyon of foreign terrain.  
Foreign, for I have neglected to nurture or rather, acknowledge   
the beating of a racing heart or the sunburn flush that creeps   
up my neck and tinges my face.  
  
And despite my attempted abandonment, my hunger, thirst, no -- my  
yearning has allowed him to see past my reserves, crawling   
through the ever-expanding fissure, bursting through the cemented   
efforts of my ill-fated intention.  
  
Though the sun's glowing rays of admittance display the truth  
of my feelings to myself; it is only to myself -- or so I try  
to believe. But it's a lie. He has been given a glimpse of the  
sun's discovery and he doesn't, hasn't, turned away. Desperate,  
I have attempted to confuse him, distract him -- to hammer down  
my lidded desire behind arched stares and level words.  
  
I don't think it's worked, not completely.  
  
And I'm frightened. This fear fences my craving -- concealing me,  
cloaking me in despair's embrace, leaving me to flounder behind  
a bank of continued denial to myself and to him.  
  
I don't need him, I don't want him, he doesn't want me.  
  
Denial.   
  
It spindles, sprawling out in an ever-growing,   
encompassing circle that covers the fingered imprint he   
leaves upon my heart, upon my soul.  
  
I continue to battle a war already lost, never admitting   
defeat -- allowing my feelings to forever remain stale-mated   
in a belted lie, tightened against the truth, but not   
within it.  
  
And I can't take it anymore. Yet, I can't help feeling surprised   
that I have faltered, letting the plaster crack upon the walls   
of my well-tended reserve.  
  
So I sit on the bed, in my room, sketched in shadows  
interrupted only by moonlight glaring its dull glow  
through the leafy veil of tree branches, branches that   
brush against my window.  
  
I hear the stereo, the CD repeats and repeats. The singer's  
voice pours from the speakers, saturating my bedroom and  
myself, in clear, dulcet tones.  
  
Burying my face against the chilled cotton pillow case, I   
feel the coldness creep into my skin and bathe my heart in   
anxiety. I want him. It has become a deafening refrain that   
can never touch his ears.  
  
For, I can't tell him, it's our game, you see. I don't know who  
created the rules, perhaps we both did. We have stood, juxtaposed  
with one another, moving in our Russian dance of roulette. But   
the music has stopped, and the bullet has fired, shattering  
my lies, leaving an open frame of revelation that tears through  
my soul. Unhinged and off balance, I display a truth that I   
cannot, that I must not, allow him to see.  
  
And I want to cry, a cavalcade of tears that will cleanse my  
heart and free it of the need that is buried there. But   
I can't cry, I can't --   
  
I won't.   
  
Frozen, I am caught in a mire of confused, conflicting sentiment   
and need -- unable to demolish the wall that bars my inner-most   
wants -- unable to expose them to the outside world -- to him.   
  
No.  
  
For what would this flooding reality mean, to us, our work,  
our life, were I to give it the birth it so desperately wants?   
I know that I would never be able to remain the same, no longer  
able to play in the fun house of illusion --  
  
It would be destroyed, leaving me bare, standing among the   
debris of my broken mirrors. I can't allow myself that   
vulnerability.  
  
I can't.  
  
I won't.  
  
Falling back, my quilted bedspread catches me. I curl my body  
into a shell, seeking a soothing solace that isn't there, that  
I know will never be there again.  
  
I want to cry.  
  
My body shudders against a gripping anguish, an anguish that   
attempts to push through my mortar of repression, a repression   
who's seal I refuse to let shatter... and I know it.  
  
I don't want to love him, want him, need him.   
  
  
I don't want to,   
  
  
want to...  
  
  
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
  
  
'Open the door, Scully. Open it!' I silently command, banging  
on the door yet again, the wood scratching against my knuckles.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Damn it! I pace in front of her doorway. Waiting, always   
waiting. Driving a hand through my hair, I step up to her  
door once more, knocking.  
  
"Scully!"   
  
Still no response. An angry growl barks through my lips.  
I know she's there. I know it. I can hear music playing,  
trapped behind her apartment walls.   
  
And so I pace.   
  
This is ridiculous, insane. I'm not going to wait out   
here all night and I'm not leaving before I see   
her.  
  
Damn it! What *am* I doing here? She doesn't want to see me.   
You'd think I could get a clue. Shaking my head, I grimace.   
  
I do have a clue or at least a fragment of this puzzle, only   
it's not enough. It's too vague to decipher and that is   
unacceptable. Answers have to be given, words said. I refuse   
to allow what happened less than an hour ago dictate what I   
am rapidly beginning to believe could mean my future, our   
future. No, this is where I should be and I'm not leaving   
here, her, us -- not without a fight.  
  
The image of her face, of her eyes and how she looked upon  
me, flashes before me. A sinking dread gathers, dropping   
over my senses.  
  
I stop and blindly look up and down her hallway, trying  
to clear the vision. Rubbing my hand against my chin, I  
continue pacing, unable to stop thinking upon the events   
once more.  
  
The office. I shiver, a swamping fear dipping me into  
an ever deepening well of anxiety. It is as if my soul   
knows a secret that is yet to be whispered in my ear,   
causing my thoughts to grip upon a piercing possibility.  
  
Maybe, just maybe, I really don't want to know what   
lies behind her earlier behavior.   
  
I stop my movements. Perhaps, perhaps I'm afraid to know.   
  
No, no perhaps, it's a definite. And acknowledging that   
discovery scares me even more, propelling me, forcing myself   
to confront whatever truth is to be laid out before me. This   
fear has quickly evolved into a desperate demand that races   
my heart, beads my temples, and moistening my palms in sweat.   
  
So, I'm here, wanting, needing, to see her -- battling   
against my trepidation. Sighing, I plunge my hands into   
my pants' pockets, flipping a coin, playing with the   
gathered change.   
  
Again, I'm assaulted by earlier's events, unable to stop   
replaying the snap-shot reel of memories. I can't stop   
freezing it, pausing it, upon her face. No, not her face,   
not exactly. I'm unable to stop seeing the screen capture   
of her eyes.  
  
Shuddering, I grip a shoulder, rolling, loosening the   
tightening muscles. I let my hand fall to my side,   
drumming my fingers against my leg.   
  
I squeeze my eyes shut against the images of her, us, in the   
office. But, unable to stop them, they flicker, flaring   
into full blown replay...  
  
  
We were in the office, each to our own task. I had  
risen from my desk, case file in hand, bringing  
it over for her to look at. I plopped the manilla  
folder open, leaning over to point out a particularly  
odd witness statement.  
  
Instead of glancing over my discovery, she shot out of her  
seat, causing me to fall back, out of her way.  
  
"Scully?"  
  
She said nothing, not with words. I felt her eyes pinning  
my body, freezing it against movement or response. My throat  
constricted, an involuntary action as confusion clouded my   
senses.  
  
I wondered what I had or hadn't done and couldn't effectively  
explain away her response, her behavior. Finally, I spoke again.  
  
"Scully?"  
  
I watched her as her eyes seemed to rip into me, blanketing me  
in a net of contempt.  
  
Contempt?  
  
Punched and nearly breathless by that look, I watched, wordless  
once more, as she gathered her briefcase and purse. My mouth   
hinged open but words refused to issue forth, to form -- stuck   
in the natal stages of thought.  
  
All I could do was observe. She did not face me again, striding   
to the door, she tore it open.  
  
I watched, suffocating. She paused, but only for a moment  
before clasping the knob more firmly. She walked through  
the doorway, letting the door close gently behind her, cutting  
her out of my sight and I feared, much more.   
  
I couldn't explain it but this was something big, something that   
nudged at my subconscious, needling and yet refusing to step from  
the shadows. I felt a shudder race over my skin and chill   
my senses.  
  
I had expected the door to reverberate in the door frame,  
coating my ears in a ringing endorsement for my lack of  
whatever. But it hadn't, and she didn't. And that scared  
me.   
  
She was gone.   
  
Gone...  
  
I looked around the office, dazed. Falling back into my   
chair, my apprehension expanded, sprawling and then collecting   
into an agitation that crawled under my skin, itching. Trapped,  
I was reeling, captured in the memory of that stare, of   
that look.   
  
Contempt.   
  
A cold, dark fear latched onto my chest, clasping my   
heart -- squeezing. I have seen Scully angry, irritated, but   
never this, never towards me.   
  
My throat was dry. No matter how many times I swallowed, it  
remained dry -- almost choking me as the word, the thought, the   
implication tumbled and rumbled, stampeding through my mind   
and knocking against the crumbling walls of my confusion.  
  
Contempt.  
  
The look was for me, not for what I might have done, but what I  
had done. I felt it, knew it to be an end result that I had   
created. That *something* had crept over her features, aiming,   
striking me down. The calm, definite finality with which she   
seemed to slip from the office hammered at me, louder and   
louder, imprisoning my thoughts with its pounding refrain.  
  
Contempt.  
  
Time, ticking, tapping out the minutes into fifteen, twenty  
and even more passed by, blaring into my contemplations,  
prodding me, triggering me into action.  
  
Abruptly, I stood, ripping my jacket off the back of my chair,   
knocking over case files and not looking back. I tore through   
the crowding, shrinking, office space and burst out of the room   
and down J. Edgar Hoover's empty hallways. The sound of my   
footsteps ricocheted off the walls as I ran, running toward the   
answer that, ultimately, only she could give...  
  
  
  
  
  
Jerked back to the moment, I felt eyes upon me. I looked around  
and saw someone, a neighbor, had passed me, going on to   
the elevator.  
  
I shook my head, clearing it. Enough! My hallway vigil   
is over.  
  
I utter another frustrated sigh, stepping to her door again.  
Digging into my pocket, I pull my keys out, searching  
for her's. Finding it, I insert it into the lock and  
give it a turn, entering her apartment.  
  
The rooms are doused in darkness, the lights forgotten in   
the glimmer of moonlight.  
  
I reach behind me and push the door closed as my eyes adjust   
to the black. I can make out the surroundings and she isn't   
among them.  
  
I step further into the apartment, cocking my head and listening.  
The music mists down the hallway from her bedroom, pulling me,  
directing me to its doorway.   
  
I am there, standing in the door frame. I see her.  
  
She lies on the bed, curled and facing away from me. I loiter  
at the door, waiting, needing her to look at me, acknowledge  
me, but she doesn't.   
  
I want to speak, intrude upon the music that pervades the room  
and impregnates the air, but I don't. I note the rate of her   
breathing, watching, cataloging the rise and fall of her body,   
watching as the moonlight picks its way through the room and   
lands upon her, spotlighting her.  
  
I force myself to move, to enter her bedroom, closer, cutting   
the distance between us with the hesitant fall of my steps --   
pausing mid-way toward her bed, toward her.   
  
I lick my lips, my emotions becoming a cocktail of determination   
and fear. I swallow it, letting it sink into my bones, inebriate  
my senses and loosen my tongue.   
  
"Scully?"  
  
No response. I know she is awake. Memories crest into my  
mind, recalling car rides, plane rides, and all night paper   
vigils. Fastened within each remembrance are the rare times  
when she has fallen asleep, pillowing against me. I can  
almost feel the soft rise of her breath against my skin   
again, its timed rhythm memorized.   
  
She is not sleeping.  
  
"Scully."  
  
That's when I see it; her body begins to shake, shudder. I   
close out the distance left between us, erasing it within   
three easy strides. I stand beside her bed, my knees brushing  
against the quilt. Aching, I want to reach out to her, have   
her look at me, but the memory of our last parting sneaks up,   
immobilizing and gluing my hands at my sides.   
  
I shake my head, clearing it of fear. This is Scully, my  
partner, my friend.   
  
This is my Scully.  
  
My Scully. The implication of that phrasing stalks into   
my mind, demanding my immediate attention, demanding my   
acknowledgment. I don't think I want to. I don't....   
  
"Scully, look at me."  
  
I wait, moments, minutes, hours -- there's no difference.   
Finally she falls onto her back and meets my gaze, searching,   
dissecting -- scrutinizing. I see her features begin to   
crumble, but she bits her lip, suppressing, commanding,   
controlling the reaction that surfaces, demanding it to obey   
her will.  
  
I am lost as I watch her battle -- fighting against something   
so strong that I can see it strangling her determination,  
leaving her intent to slide away in defeat. She turns  
her head away.  
  
"Scully?"  
  
At the sound of my call she tears herself from the   
bed, flocking to the rocking chair that faces the window. I   
watch, breathless, wordless as she begins to sway in the   
seat.   
  
It is as if she is crumbling, shrinking before my very eyes   
as she struggles, striving to avoid me, my gaze and I don't   
know what to do.   
  
Confusion swathes me in its blankets, bundling me against   
action, any action or support that I want to give her -- that   
is, if she would let me. But I know she won't. She never   
does and with that reminder, anger begins to thread through   
my bonded tongue, snapping the strings that hold it mute   
and spurring me into response.  
  
"Scully," I call, my tone dipped in red -- blotting out  
the vision of blackened shadows that drape the room.  
  
She doesn't say anything. I walk over to her and grab  
an arm of the wooden chair, spinning it around to make   
her face me. I squat down before her.   
  
She doesn't react.  
  
"I want to know what's going on with you, and I want  
to know now," I demand. I watch her, her breathing  
increases in agitation. Reluctant, she meets my stare   
and again, I am blanketed in contempt. Instead of shrinking   
away from that look, I meet it, trying to see past it,  
or at least understand it.  
  
"What's wrong?" I ask, unable to let a shade of desperation   
mix with my anger. I firmly grip her hand. It's shaking.   
  
She tries to free herself but I won't let her. Not this time.  
I refuse to let her walk out on me again, emotionally or   
physically, despite how her actions seem to shred my very  
being -- a reaction I haven't acknowledged, until now.   
  
"Scully, what is it, what... what did I do? I... I don't   
understand."  
  
The last words leak from my lips in a deflating whisper.   
I close my eyes, squeezing them shut and turning my head  
to the side for the barest of seconds before facing her  
again. I speak, my voice stronger.  
  
"Talk to me, Scully! I'm your friend, your...," I coax,   
imploring her to eradicate the confusion that has blanketed   
me, the confusion that partners with an anxiety that is   
ripping my heart apart.  
  
"I can't," she whispers, her eyes closing -- curtaining her   
view from my face. I study her features, her eyes are screwed   
shut. The skin over her cheek bones are pale and pulled taut   
with tension.   
  
I gently squeeze her hand and she flinches. "Scully."  
  
Slowly, she cracks her eyes open, exposing the blue color to   
the room and my gaze. I draw back, my throat catching.  
  
The contempt is gone, replaced by a tidal wave of blue fear.   
It drenches me in its brilliance. I have never seen Scully  
afraid, not like this, never like this... never...  
  
...never of me.  
  
My voice catches, my throat suddenly hoarse as a  
phantasm of possibilities possess my thoughts -- loudest   
of all is, 'What have I done?' The question rears   
before me again, a deafening echoing.  
  
"Scully, tell me."  
  
She leans forward, reaching toward my face. I feel the   
coolness of her shaky hands against my heated skin. I   
stare, seeking, recording the way her eyes scan my features   
before raising to my own.   
  
I notice her eyes are filled, trapping tears, tears   
that plead to fall and my heart aches, spreading in   
my chest, caught beneath my bones.  
  
"Don't cry," I whisper, tender. My hand reaches up, capturing  
her face within my palm.   
  
Suddenly a guttural sob rips from her throat and the tears,  
her tears, plummet in rapids, drenching her face and flowing   
over my hand.  
  
"I don't want this... I don't...," she croaks, her voice raw  
and blocked with a storm of emotions that wracks her face,   
tearing from the depths of her soul.  
  
She grips me, pulling me toward her and I am lost as she  
clutches my jacket by the lapels, her strength anchoring  
me too her. I hear pained defeat echoing in her sobs and  
I can do nothing but hold her.  
  
I pull her from the chair, into my lap and we sink back to  
the floor, leaning against the side of the bed. We rock as  
I clasp her against my chest. She entwines her arms around  
me, her fists bunching the material of my shirt, burying them   
beneath my jacket.  
  
I hold her, crushing against me. I can feel her heart  
beating, thumping against my skin, reverberating against  
my soul.   
  
Again, time eludes me: seconds, minutes -- hours could have   
past. I wouldn't know. All I do know is the weight of her  
body, the heat of her touch and her anguish that flows.  
  
Eventually, she lifts her head and meets my eyes.  
Searching, she submerges me within the cleansed emotions   
reflected, displayed before me.   
  
She is vulnerable. Her vulnerability unmasks my own  
and I can only stare, caught in a riot of rumbling   
feelings.   
  
I can feel my will drowning, the seal of fabricated confusion,   
a confusion that I have bathed in lies, stresses -- buckling   
against the monsoon of thoughts and desires that I have   
contained for longer than I care to remember, longer   
than I... longer.  
  
"I hate you," she whispers as she tenderly wipes tears   
from my face while crying her own, "I hate you."  
  
I am stunned, confused, hurting and unable to mask the   
whirlpool of pain her words stir within me, unable to mask   
anything anymore, not with her -- never with her again. But as  
quickly as those feelings submerge me, I am lifted from   
them, buoyed by an already discovered understanding, a   
knowing that is bared in her eyes.   
  
I let out a series of low, shuddering breaths as the impact of  
her gaze washes onto the sands of my heart, cautiously -- oh  
so very cautiously -- carrying her toward me. She arrives,  
her eyes closing, ending the voyage.  
  
Leaning forward and wrapping her arms around me, she   
buries her face into the hollow between my shoulder and neck.  
I can feel the tears saturate my shirt in their steady flow,  
her hair, feather wisps, tickles my skin as she shakes   
her head from side to side, repeating over and over -- softly,   
gently, in my ear," I hate you."  
  
Eventually, she pulls back to face me again and my breath   
catches, trapped between my lips as she comes toward me,   
canceling any space that remains between us.   
  
I wait, watching and nearly incredulous. She is seeking  
me, reaching for me. As her lips brush mine, I question   
her.  
  
"Why do you hate me, Scully?" I whisper against her lips,   
prisoner to her stare, her touch, her taste.   
  
"Don't you know, Mulder? Can't you tell?" she asks her mouth  
still against mine, her voice shuddering out the question on   
the bed of a sigh.  
  
Oh yes I know. The secret has whispered through the dam   
of my subconscious, breaking from the shadows -- flooding   
me in a bath of revealed truth.   
  
Yes, I can tell, but I want her, need her to say it -- for her   
to *really* know it -- know it as I now know it.  
  
"Because of this," she answers, sealing the words with   
a lingering kiss that tosses me into a deluge of heated  
bliss, soaking and saturating me, "This."  
  
I pull back for a moment, studying her eyes, netted in them,  
lost within them and her.  
  
"Scully," I say, gripping her to me as I feel my tears  
continue to dive down my cheeks, faster and stronger. My  
voice is jagged, rough with need -- need and... and...  
and love, "I hate you, too."  
  
Refusing to let her go, us go, I carefully wedge my foot   
within the door frame of her shattered shield, a shield   
that has fallen, clattering to the ground, landing   
beside my own.  
  
She reaches a hand to my face and brushes the silent wetness,  
capturing it within her shaking palm, absorbing a part of  
me within her skin.   
  
"Don't cry," she whispers, the tears still falling from  
her own eyes.  
  
How could I not?  
  
"I... Scully," I stammer, looking at her. All I can feel is  
my heart cracking, punctured by the smell of her , the look of  
her -- the need of her.  
  
"Shh...," she whispers, still studying my face as  
she repeats herself, "Shh...."  
  
"No, no more silence," I reply, giving her a quivering, yet  
determined smile. My words hammer, bursting any lingering  
protective, no- hindering barricades that stand before   
us, "No more."  
  
Looking at her, my head shaking side to side, I mirror my  
words with motion. I leave my eyes naked and open for her   
to peer through. She leans forward, wrapping her arms   
about my waist, her head against my chest. I hear and   
feel her breath hitching against me.  
  
I clutch her, my arms mimicking hers as we sit on the floor.  
I can feel her head nodding, agreeing as she repeats my  
words, my thoughts -- our need, "No more, no more walls."   
  
She pulls back to face me again and my breath catches,   
trapped between my lips as she comes toward me once  
again.   
  
I move forward as well, to meet her, but her arms hold me in   
place. This is to be her claiming, her reaffirmation and I   
can do nothing but let it happen, silently demand it to   
happen with all of my being.  
  
"I'm tired of fighting," she says letting her lips  
touch against mine before pulling slightly away.  
  
Fighting. Fighting against feelings, fate and future.  
I have wanted her, waited for her, needed her.   
  
I have her.  
  
"So am I," I whisper, prisoner to her stare, her touch.   
  
"We don't have to fight anymore," she says.  
  
No... we don't.  
  
And it is her resolution, her need to accept and claim --  
to notify her heart and thoughts that the battle against  
me, against us, is, indeed over.  
  
I answer, covering her hand and pulling her against me.  
She shifts against my body, her warm curves sinking into  
mine as I seal our truce with a heated kiss that  
declares, demands and decimates any lingering fear. Our   
tongues tangle, tasting and tantalizing one another in  
swaying, scintillating sensations.   
  
We break apart reluctant, our mouths reaching and halting  
as our eyes study each other.   
  
"Wow," I can't help saying. She smiles and my eyes are  
drawn to the swollen fullness of her lips.  
  
Struck, I realize that I have been missing that smile  
for such a long time. It had been dressing her features less   
and less and my face falls at the realization.  
  
"I've missed that," I whisper, reaching my finger tips to  
trace her upturned mouth, my eyes solemn and serious.  
  
"What?" she asks against the pads of my fingers.  
  
"Your smile," I answer, leaning in to replace my fingers  
with a gentle, sensuous touching of skin against the most  
sensitive of skin, my lips stamping my need with the softest,   
yet most profound of touches.  
  
My heart is thundering, throbbing against my chest as the kiss  
lingers, tweaking my blood and strumming my senses. Our kiss,   
hot, searing -- a branding mark that devastates and elates,   
rising, reaching and gripping my very being to dizzying heights,   
beyond the scattered sky, the contemplated stars, beyond.  
  
This is my Scully.  
  
The phrase is no longer an implication but a verification,   
a declaration of... of my life, my soul --  
  
My Scully.  
  
  
  
  
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
  
  
I didn't want to love him, want him, need him.   
  
  
I didn't want to, want to...  
  
  
but I have and I do.  
  
  
~finis~  
  
  
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
REFRAIN  
by  
Exley_61  
exley61@yahoo.com   
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
  
  
  
  
-Exley 61  
"Woman, get back in here and make me a sandwich!"  
[FM in Arcadia] 


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